


Look

by PrettyThief



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Kiss, Light Angst, Post-Canon, Scar Kissing, canonical body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28592454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyThief/pseuds/PrettyThief
Summary: With the war over, Brienne has more time than ever to worry about the scar on her face.Jaime thinks he can help her move past it.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 24
Kudos: 167
Collections: JB Festive Festival Exchange Stocking Stuffers 2020





	Look

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zeta_Mei](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeta_Mei/gifts).



> For zeta_mei, whose prompt was something based on [this artwork](https://www.ancient.eu/img/r/p/500x600/6368.jpg). This may not be an exact interpretation of the artwork, but I hope this works for you <3
> 
> Thank you to sdwolfpup for the quick beta and slipsthrufingers for the brainstorming!

After the war is done, Jaime stays by her side. It seems the most natural thing in the world; something they do without a thought. He does not question it, nor does anyone else. The castle remains full until its seams are stretched and worn, and so he still shares her quarters. Since the battles came to their abrupt end, their squires have slept in the room as well, more often than not. It feels odd to him, at times, to have them all together at once. At the height of battle, there were times when it was just him while the others were on patrol. Some nights, it was only the boys while he and Brienne went out together. Between waves of attacks, Brienne once made a joke about how she could picture them all piled into their bed like a pack of hounds scrabbling for the best spot. _Their bed_ , she’d called it. Jaime had fought his hardest that night and smiled all through it.

But now the war is done and not much has changed. Brienne’s room is still Brienne’s, and Jaime still remains her guest. He does not have much to do in the North and, truthfully, he is not sure what they expect from him. He follows her from their chambers, where they sleep on opposite sides of the bed—often with some half-grown orphan child or another curled up at their feet or wedged in between them—and out into Winterfell proper.

Brienne talks with him now and Jaime is beginning to learn that the trick is patience, even if he is not yet terribly good at it.

The sun has barely risen and they are walking to yet another council meeting and again his mind is racing with things he would like to say to her, when he notices it for the first time. His eyes keep drifting to her anxiously as they walk along a corridor lined with the shined and polished armor of long-dead Starks. Since the Long Night gave way once more to daylight, Jaime has been wondering more and more what Brienne thinks. Or perhaps—more likely—he has simply realized that Brienne’s thoughts have long been of interest to him. Mayhap even since the night they met, when she’d insulted him directly to his face. He grins to think of it now. How _cross_ that had made him. How _curious_.

He looks at her now, but she’s turned away as they walk. He can see a hazy distortion of her reflection in the breastplate of each suit of armor as they pass. She’s frowning.

When they have nearly reached Lord Stark’s solar, she has still not said a word. She worries at her lip, and the crease between her brow that Jaime likes to provoke into existence with a joke or pun that he knows she will hate has appeared without any help from him at all. Jaime does not appreciate this.

“My lady,” he says quietly, reaching out to touch her arm before thinking better of it and letting his hand fall again. “Are you well?”

Brienne inhales sharply and turns to face him. Her expression has gone neutral as quickly as pulling on a mask. “Yes.” She even tries to tilt the corners of her lips up into some ghastly excuse for a smile that only serves to further solidify the thought in Jaime’s mind. “I’m well, Ser Jaime.”

Jaime snorts; it’s an echo of her response on every occasion that Jaime had asked after her on the battlefield. Eventually she’d stopped waiting for him to ask. Brienne would catch him looking at her from even long distances and shout across to him, _I’m well, Ser Jaime!_ with a puff of laughter before driving Oathkeeper into another wight. He would smile to himself and do the same. The cycle would repeat every hour. Perhaps it was selfish, but Jaime could no longer stand to have her long out of his sight. Not after everything they had been through. Everything he had put her through.

Just as before, all he can do is agree with what she tells him and carry on with his duties. So he follows her inside and sits uselessly at her side, wondering with some mild irritation what Bran Stark means when he stares at him or why Davos Seaworth addresses him with pointed questions and even why Brienne seems to have her eyes on him as though she means to be encouraging him to do—or to say… _something_. He doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what any of them want. So he sits. He answers their questions when asked. And he notices how she touches her face without seeming to realize she’s done it. He begins to understand. Not the politics, not yet, not really. Not the room he is in or the people he is with. Something more important to him. He begins to understand her.

He waits. It is a point of pride for him how long and how well he waits. While he waits he notices it more and more often. The tiny mirror in their quarters. The larger one in the king’s solar. The suits of armor. The basins of water brought to their quarters in the evenings. She is always looking when she thinks he is not watching. She does not seem to realize that he is, with little exception, always watching. Jaime had not realized it either until he’d caught himself at it so often lately. His eyes worry after her like the rest of him seems so keen to want to do. But still, he waits.

At last, one morning he finds her alone. The sun is warm and their pack of squires have all disappeared into the courtyard. Stark had issued some excuse for postponing the council meeting, but Jaime suspects the true reason is spring. They have none of them felt the warmth of the sun on their faces in so long. It only adds to his mounting respect for the boy.

When he enters their quarters after returning from a round in the yard himself, Brienne is sitting behind the dressing table, staring into the mirror. She doesn't seem to have heard him enter and so he lingers, folding his arms over his chest and watching her with a frown. 

He cannot watch for long. Cannot tolerate her sadness a single second longer.

"It gets better,” he says softly, as he might speak to a skittish animal whose friendship he wants to win.

She sniffles and he can see even through the layers of her leathers and furs how her body tenses. Her shoulders square. Her jaw clenches. Her hands squeeze into fists at her sides. She says nothing.

Jaime sighs to himself and comes to stand behind her. The mirror is spotted with age and small, but trimmed in ornate scrolling along the edges. In its day, it had likely been a fanciful thing. A gift from the south for some Stark lady, perhaps. And now it rests in the forgotten chambers of Brienne of Tarth and the last Lannister son is frowning into it, watching her stare at her hands.

“I don’t mean that the wound will heal any better than it has already, of course.” He says this lightly, pressing at the edges of the shell she has drawn herself up into. “But thinking about it will get better.”

She lifts her head a bit at that, peering up at him from under long, blonde lashes. His heart constricts in his chest to see that they are damp, that tears swim in her eyes. “Ser Jaime, I’m sorry, I—I didn’t think—”

Brienne glances at his stump, up to his face, then back down to her hands in her lap again so quickly that he barely has time to track the movements. A tear escapes to streak down one burning-red cheek.

“Brienne.” He nearly wants to laugh at how absurd it is that _she_ might feel bad for _him_. “You’ve nothing to apologize for.”

 _Gods, I’m only making this worse_. He is only ever making things worse for Brienne, even when his only intention has been to protect her. To keep her safe. He knows he contributed much during the Long Night, but he knows, too, that he has never been very good at this part. Protecting the people he cares for most. 

He draws closer to her and considers again, for perhaps the hundredth time in their acquaintance, pulling her into him. Comforting her. His stomach twists with indecision. They have been through hell and back together. They have made it to the end of the world and against all odds they have made it here, to this room where the sun shines and the sound of children’s laughter echoes from the courtyard below into the room that she calls _theirs_ and … what harm is there, really?

Jaime crouches down in front of her and at first he is not sure what he’s going to do. Her eyes are shut tight, a deep ache written plainly on her face. He swallows hard, reaches up and touches the calloused pads of his fingertips to the wide, rough scar that had once been a freckled cheek.

Brienne freezes.

“Does it still hurt?”

She shakes her head.

“Good.” He replaces his fingers with his thumb, stroking over the sinewy edges. He’s trying. He doesn’t quite know what to do, but he is trying and she seems to relax her shoulders some. No one has ever asked him for gentle touches and soft words. He has never had to console anyone in this way, but he is finding that he likes this. Likes consoling her.

And so it seems quite the natural next step to lean forward and brush his lips against her cheek. His hand falls to her lap, searching for her hand and holding it warm in his own, pulling it up between them to rest against his chest where his heart is pounding wildly. His eyes flutter shut and he allows himself to linger there, pressing his forehead to her temple and inhaling the scent of her hair.

Brienne’s breathing is heavy but steady until finally she says, “You must think me quite silly to be so caught up in this.” She touches her hand to her scar but pulls it away quickly.

“I don’t,” he says vehemently, leaning away from her just enough to hold her gaze. “But… You could talk to me about it. If you wanted. Or I could…” He trails off then, feeling his own ears growing hot and feeling completely absurd for it.

“Yes?” She’s almost smiling. The little crease between her brow has returned, but it’s softer. Curious.

Jaime clears his throat, but instead of saying the words he means to say—instead of suggesting that he could hold her when she’s sad; that he cannot _solve_ her problems, but he can stay beside her as they work through them together—he leans forward again. But this time he does not aim for her scar. This time, he presses his lips to hers. Tentatively at first, just his lips ghosting lightly across her bottom lip before pulling away to gauge her reaction.

There’s surprise in Brienne’s eyes, he sees. But she’s smiling. Really smiling. Yes, this is a sort of comfort that Jaime could grow used to providing.

“Are you well?” he asks with a little grin.

Her smile widens. Her scar stretches across her face. In this moment at least, she does not seem to mind. “I’m well, Jaime.” And when she kisses him again, he can feel how much she means it.


End file.
